William Shakespeare Rose Quotations

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.

He wears the rose Of youth upon him.

But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks...

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.

The fragrance of the rose lingers on the hand that casts it

What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud.All men make faults.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.